


window dressing

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Army Doctor John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson, Exhibitionism, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Purple Shirt of Sex, Smut, Strength Kink, Top John Watson, Window Sex, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Captain John Watson, insatiable bottom Sherlock Holmes, the purple shirt of sex, and a very lucky window.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 52
Kudos: 223





	window dressing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hayenga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hayenga/gifts), [Oziraphale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oziraphale/gifts).



> **Dual prompt fill:**
> 
> @Oziraphale on tumblr: _“Are you wearing my shirt?” - Sherlock to John about the purple shirt_
> 
> and
> 
> an email prompt from 'Lovey': _I was wondering if you could do a strength kink fix with them? Sherlock practically losing it over John’s muscular build and what he can do with it_
> 
>   
> I've never written a strength kink before, so hopefully this works!

Clean and refreshed from his shower, Sherlock towels his hair dry as he walks from the bathroom to the sitting room. Freezing in the hall, hands going still, he blinks, taking in the sight of John. 

Standing by the window with his back to Sherlock, he is wearing a tight purple shirt and nothing else. The shirt's bottom barely covers the solid muscles of his buttock and upper thighs, and Sherlock's heart sets to racing. The towel falls from his hands, and he clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry. John turns at the sound, his profile lit by the light from the windows. One of his pale eyebrows rises, his expression coy.

“Hello,” he says huskily, and Sherlock nearly swallows his tongue.

“Are… are you wearing my shirt?” The question wheezes out from his open mouth, licking his numb lips when John faces him fully. 

“Hmm, it seems that I am.” John’s lips curl at the corners, something playfully feral in his expression.

The front of the shirt, only two of the middle buttons fastened, hangs open at the neck and the bottom. Eyes flickering over John’s form, Sherlock doesn’t know where to look. His gaze wanders over the bared skin of John’s upper chest, the peaked points of his nipples, easily visible through the thin fabric. Lower, shadowed by the shirt’s open front, John’s cock is already rising to attention, curving up against his inner thigh, the placket draped over the tip. Where the head rests, Sherlock can see a small smear of precome on the material. At the sight of it, his breathing quickens. The sound of it is loud, rushing out from behind his teeth as they sink into his bottom lip. John’s smile widens, sharp, wicked, and he closes the distance between them, crossing the room and moving into Sherlock’s body without pause. 

“Mm, like what you see?” His hands smooth over Sherlock’s chest, down to his stomach, fingers dragging over the edge of the towel wrapped around his hips. Thumbs hooking, he pauses to look up into Sherlock’s face with darkened eyes. “Shall I see if I’m right?” 

Breathless, Sherlock nods, words dying in his throat as John unwraps the towel, opening it slowly, teasing. His hands are warm, lingering on Sherlock’s skin before the covering falls away entirely. His cock springs free, hardening at once under John’s focused gaze. 

“Lovely,” John breathes. His fingertips trace over the length, drifting over the head. The sensation makes Sherlock close his eyes, his breath stuttering, goosebumps breaking out over his skin. John’s hand closes over him, tugging, bringing him to full mast. Sherlock sways into the soldier with a low gasp, hands darting over John's chest, fingers catching on the smooth fabric of his own dress shirt. Barely containing the muscles of John’s arms and shoulders, the seams stretch when John suddenly grabs him by the hips, lifting him with ease. Groaning, Sherlock wraps his legs around the soldier’s waist, arms locking around John’s neck. Their mouths come together with a click of teeth, tongues tracing over and pushing between lips. 

When his back hits the window, Sherlock hardly registers the cold glass on his bare skin. John presses up against him, arms locked, no sign of strain as he pins Sherlock in place. He sucks hard on his bottom lip, tugging with his teeth, grinning at Sherlock’s involuntary whines. John’s cock slides against the bottom of his thighs, and between his legs, his own erection diminished by the soldier’s size and girth. The leaking head of John’s cock paints a line over his inner thigh, a slick, shining trail of arousal that has Sherlock panting eagerly against John’s lips.

“I’m going to fuck you up against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it.”

Sherlock moans at the words, eyes nearly rolling back in his head at the thought. “Fuck,” he breathes. His hands land on John’s biceps, fingers curling around the flexed muscles. The feel of them sends a surge of want up his spine, warmth flooding through his body, a flush making its way up his chest and into his face. 

“You like that idea?” John’s teeth scrape over his neck, mouth fastening on the curve of his shoulder while he rubs up against the sensitive skin on the underside of Sherlock’s bollocks. “I think you do, but you know what?”

Head tilted back against the window with his lids low and heavy over his darkened eyes, Sherlock licks his lips, breathless. “W-what?” he manages, swallowing back another moan as John’s hands slide to his arse, kneading, gripping, holding him up. 

John grins. Tilting forward, his exhale hot against Sherlock’s jaw, he whispers, “I don’t think you realize that anyone could see.” His lips twist into a sly, crooked expression. “If they were to...just...look up.” His words are broken by the heavy, wet, open-mouthed kisses he drops over Sherlock’s neck and collar bones, working his way back to his lips. Licking between them, he sucks on Sherlock’s tongue until Sherlock is a shaking, drooling mess. Fingers still wrapped around John’s tensed biceps, he whimpers. 

“I don’t care,” he sighs. 

John’s eyebrows shoot up before lowering, a dark light glinting in his eyes. 

“That so?” he asks, imprinting marks on the side of Sherlock’s neck with his teeth. “You wouldn’t care if someone you knew came by and happened to look up? If they caught you being fucked against the window? Begging for it, screaming for more?"

Shaking his head, skull rolling against the hard surface of the window, Sherlock locks his legs tighter around John’s waist. 

“You can do whatever you want to me, just, oh, fuck, _please_ , Captain Watson. Fuck me.”

John’s grin widens, and then he’s pressing Sherlock harder to the window, shifting his grip so one arm is taking Sherlock’s weight. He grunts, adjusting their position, but otherwise seems oblivious to the feat of strength. Eyes widening, arousal rushing through him, Sherlock tries not to drool at the powerful display. 

He fails, John smirking at him as Sherlock chokes on his own saliva. 

“One-armed pushups,” John says, cocky and smug. “You should try them.” 

“Workout?” Sherlock scoffs weakly, limbs shuddering at the feeling of John’s fingers moving between his legs and further, tips brushing his hole. “I’d rather not.”

“I know a workout you might enjoy,” John breathes. His index finger circles the ring of muscle, making Sherlock’s erection twitch in response to the sensitive touch. After so many repetitions of sex, his body is still somewhat relaxed, though not as much as when they were in the shower together. John presses slowly, Sherlock grunting at the pressure until his body relaxes, allowing John’s finger inside. It slips up to the second knuckle in a smooth slide, and Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter, eyes rolling up at the promise of more. His head falls back against the windowpane again, a soft, drawn-out keening slipping from his lips as John adds a second finger. 

John twists and spreads, working Sherlock’s muscles loose, Sherlock groaning and grinding his cock against John’s stomach. The front of his own shirt hangs open over John’s chest. The smooth, slippery fabric is a pleasant, unfamiliar texture against his erection. As John adds another finger, widening him further, Sherlock’s breath catches in a little whine, eyes opening wide.

“Oh,” he pants, breathless, pleading, “Oh, _please,_ Captain.” 

“Please, what?” John’s voice is a husky growl in his ear. He lathes his tongue over the side of Sherlock’s neck, from jaw to collar bone, drawing a line of saliva over twitching skin. “Tell me.”

 _“John!”_ Sherlock whimpers, legs beginning to tremble where they strain to stay clamped around John’s waist. “Fuck me, please, fuck me, oh, god.”

“Mmmm,” John hums, sucking a bruise among previous marks left on Sherlock’s skin. “I love it when you beg. Wonder how long I could make you plead for it. Should we find out?” Sherlock’s only response is another whimper, thighs tensing, trying to bring them closer. John’s lips curve in a predatory grin. “God, you’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

Grunting, he adjusts his grip, fingers slipping out of Sherlock’s body, hands locking around his thighs. Nails digging into skin, he presses forward, trapping Sherlock harder against the window. The press of him, all solid muscle and musky scent, makes Sherlock’s head spin, swallowing back reactive saliva at the feeling of John’s cock against his perineum. The contact draws a gasp from lips, parting, the breath stolen away by John’s mouth when he tilts forward to kiss the resulting groan from Sherlock’s throat. “Tell me what you want.”

“You...your…” Sherlock’s words stumble from his mouth, tongue clumsy with lust. “Your cock,” he finally manages, squirming. “I want—your cock!” 

John smirks, eyes flashing with his own aching want. The head of his cock brushes Sherlock’s stretched hole, making him shiver and twitch, hips bucking forward automatically. The sound he releases makes John grin against his lips, fingers kneading into the skin of his legs.

“Mm, such a shame that I have to let you go so I can get the lube,” John growls, mouthing over Sherlock’s jawline. “Hate to step away and leave you like this, aching for my cock.” 

Sherlock’s protests take the form of nails and tightening legs, hands scrabbling at John’s shoulders and flexed muscles, dragging him in closer. The window is hard against his spine, borderline painful, but Sherlock ignores it in favour of keeping John pressed against him. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” he breathes, nearly panting with need. “Don’t you _dare.”_

One of John’s brows rises, inquisitive. “You think you can take me without it?” he asks, words hot against Sherlock’s lips. “Dry, with nothing but the stretch of my fingers to prepare you?” 

Already nodding, lips numb, Sherlock wiggles his hips. The movement makes John’s cock drag over his hole, and he lets out an almost pitiful whine, limbs shaking with his need to be filled. 

“Yes,” he replies, eyes wild, hair in sweaty tangles. “Give it to me, I can take it.” 

“Mm, good soldier,” John whispers. He leans forward, licking his way past Sherlock’s lips. Kissing him deep and long, the slick slide of his tongue scatters even the possibility of coherent thought. Suddenly boneless, Sherlock falls limp, John keeping him up with ease. 

John tilts his head to change the angle of the kiss. Sucking on Sherlock’s tongue, he nudges his cock against Sherlock’s loosened hole, teasing, tantalizing, the head pressing into muscle but no further. Fighting back the urge to sob with want, Sherlock slides a hand below himself. He feels about, groping blindly as he takes John’s bottom lip in his teeth until he finds the hard jut of him. Gripping, he positions the head of John’s cock at his entrance, pauses to take a deep breath between kisses, and guides him inside. 

The initial pressure makes him gasp again, whimpering against John’s mouth. John hums in sympathy, his hands soothing as they grip Sherlock’s thighs, thumbs stroking comforting circles on his skin. Breathing shakily, swallowing the urge to voice his discomfort, Sherlock rocks his hips slowly, John accommodating the movement by shifting his hold on his legs. 

Another inch slips inside, muscles releasing, Sherlock’s head falling back and breaking the contact between their lips, a soft _ah_ escaping his mouth. Unperturbed, John kisses down his throat, sucks lightly at his neck, drags his tongue over the curve of a shoulder. He lets Sherlock set the pace, allowing him to acclimate to the breach, content to taste and explore the skin in front of him. 

With John halfway inside him, Sherlock releases the base of his cock, hands gripping John’s shoulders. The material of his purple shirt, hugging John’s traps, muscles stretching the seams, slips under his fingers when he tries to tighten his grip. Frustrated, needy, whining, Sherlock tightens his legs and shifts lower. The rest of John’s length slips inside, and he closes his eyes with a desperate, _“Ahhhhh.”_ The sound sighs out of him, body quivering, adjusting to the stretch. John holds still, hands shifting to cup Sherlock’s arse cheeks, massaging muscle as he finds Sherlock’s mouth again, kissing him until he is loose and languid. 

When Sherlock opens his eyes, John’s stare is dark, blue eyes tempestuous, his face flushed with arousal. His lips are parted, tongue darting out, eyelids at half-mast. The sight makes Sherlock moan again, and he wraps his arms tight around John’s neck, claiming his lips with aching aggression. Growling in his chest, John begins to rock his hips, shaking him with small, slow thrusts deep inside him. 

“John.” Sherlock’s fingers find the gap between skin and shirt collar, nails dragging over sweat-slick flesh. “Oh, John.”

“Captain Watson,” John chides, and Sherlock’s eyes nearly roll back in response.

“Captain!” he babbles, hips rolling desperately, cock searching for stimulation against John’s stomach. “I need...I want…” he shakes his head, words failing. Grinning, John leans forward, licking a trickle of sweat from the side of his face.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers. “Use your words, there’s a good soldier.”

“Harder,” Sherlock gasps, staring at John from half-closed eyes, pupils blown wide. “I need...harder.” 

“Roger that,” John quips, the words dying off in a low growl. Tilting Sherlock back until his shoulders are pressed to the window, body at an angle, he thrusts forward. The force draws a cry from Sherlock’s lips, eyes flying wide open, core muscles tightening with the sudden change in position. John’s hands are vice-like on his hips, holding him in place as Sherlock scrambles for purchase on the windowsill. 

“John… Captain Watson… _John!”_ Before he can slip, the change in position precarious, John grabs him close, prompting Sherlock to wrap his limbs tight around the soldier. The closeness turns the angle shallow, and he begins to whine his displeasure when John pulls out and manhandles him around. Suddenly facing the window, his feet back on the ground, Sherlock turns to question the change, the words dying in his throat as John’s hands grip his hips.

With a hard, quick slide, John thrusts into him, Sherlock’s eager body taking him with almost painful tension.

“Ah!” Pushed forward by the movement of John’s hips, Sherlock plants his palms against the window, over his head, face pressing to the glass with every thrust. “Oh, my god…” The window is cold against his skin. He can see people below, going about their lives, seemingly oblivious to the show offered by the upstairs window of 221B. 

“Look at that,” John breathes against his neck. “Look at all those people. What if they looked up? Do you think they’d be impressed by how you look, taking my cock?” His hand drifts down Sherlock’s spine, painting tingling lines with his fingers. “Fuck, look at you.” His voice is heavy, groaning, hand possessive where it trails up Sherlock’s back. “Watching you take my cock like this...you’re a _fucking wonder.”_

Sherlock keens in response and closes his eyes, his panting exhales fogging the view. John’s pace increases, the rhythm of his thrusts rocking Sherlock forward and back with each buck of his hips, the sleek fabric of Sherlock’s shirt brushing his sweaty skin.

With a sudden jolt, the head of John’s cock butts up against his prostate, and Sherlock comes with a shout, painting the glass windowpane with ropes of cum. Somewhere between his orgasm and come-down, he babbles John’s name, chanting worship to his cock as John grunts and spills deep inside him, hands digging bruises on Sherlock’s hips.

John’s weight falls onto him, and Sherlock stumbles, nearly collapsing against the window before sliding down to his knees. With John half-sprawled over his back, the carpet is rough under his knees, softening cock trapped between his stomach and the floor.

“How are you,” Sherlock begins, pausing to gasp for air, his chest burning, mind dazed with a wash of chemicals, “so _fucking_ strong?”

John’s chuckle is low, breathy, rumbling next to his ear. “I told you,” he murmurs, nuzzling against sweaty curls. “One-handed pushups.” 

Groaning, Sherlock collapses into a boneless heap, the soldier’s lips brushing over his temple. 

**Author's Note:**

> There might be more tags needed for this, but I couldn't think of any. If you think of some, please let me know!


End file.
